


An Understanding

by picturemegone



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Misunderstandings, Platonic Relationships, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Teenage Losers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 09:11:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12339738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picturemegone/pseuds/picturemegone
Summary: it took everything in stan to finally begin to open up about his mental health decline since the groups battle with IT. so when bill becomes frustrated instead of supportive stan finds himself looking for something to take his mind off their argument, which leads him into the passenger seat of richie tozier's beat up car spilling his guts.





	1. Be Cool, Fool

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE take note that this fic will contain the sensitive topic of self harm, so if you dont think youre in a safe head space to read it then i promise my feelings wont be hurt if you have to skip over this fic/come back another time. 
> 
> a/n in notes at the end!

"This is why I didn't want talk to you about it." Stan says hotly, shoving the long sleeves of his polo down and standing up. "Because I knew you just /had/ to be fuckin’ weird about it." Stan began throwing his textbooks haphazardly in his backpack. He'd organize them properly whenever he got home. Right now, he was too frustrated to even bother with his packing ritual. 

Bill stood up so fast that his chair would have hit the floor if Bev wasn't there to catch it. He reached forward across the table and grabbed the other end of the spiral notebook Stan had was about to shove into his pack. 

"St-Stan p-please." Bill stutters out as he pulls the notebook. "J-Ju-Just sit down." his voice was hush and held a tone of slight irritation. 

Stan yanks the notebook back towards him and his lip curls up into a scowl "No Bill, I will **not** be sitting down. I'm packing my shit and meeting Richie in the parking lot, where I think I’ll finally accept his hot-boxing offer, because this-" he wrenches the notebook clean out of Bills grasp with a solid pull "-this was the last fuckin' thing I needed today."

Stan roughly stuffs the notebook in and zips up his backpack, throwing it over his shoulder. "Good. Fucking. Bye. Beverly." Stan nods towards the seated redhead, whos bright eyes were moving panicked between the two stood boys. Stan doesn't meet her gaze and turns his attention to Bill, "William." he says through gritted teeth.

Stan walks around the table, yanking his arm away when Bill reaches out and grabs at his sleeve, and storms to the doors of the library. When he flings them open he's greeted with a wave of hot air, and the faint thumping of a stereo echoing throughout the near empty parking lot. Stan squints in the direction of the sound and recognizes a familiar rusted navy blue 1988 Ford Temp. Whose proud owner, Richie Tozier, stood leaned over the top of the open driver’s side door, peering down at from what Stan could see was a rather heated Eddie Kaspber. 

Stan started his way across the lot and as he got closer, the music was turned down and a one-sided argument became clearer.

"-you KNOW that shit can kill you right? Like driving around that fucked out of your skull could cause you to swerve and die!" Eddie hisses, gesturing to a messily rolled joint tucked behind Richie's ear. "Spaghetti my man, it's fine, I've done this so much I could drive around town high as a kite with my knees." Richie says taking one of his arm out from under his chin, reaching forward and giving Eddie a good hair rustle. "You truly worry about me too much."

Eddie jerks his head away, his ears going red. He opens his mouth for another heated retort but Richie cuts him off when he spots Stan. 

"Staaaan, my man!" Richie smiles at his quickly approaching friend, who has stopped with his shoulders up by his ears and fists clenched. "What brings you to us today?" His magnified eyes slide up and down his Jewish friend, noting his stiff composure. 

"You still wanna hotbox your car?" Stan asks unceremoniously; clenching, and unclenching his hands. With the question came a smile to Richie's chapped lips. He raises his thick black brows and scoffs, "Stanley Uris, the rabbi’s son, wants to smoke out my car with me?" He puts his fingertips gently to his chest, feigning surprise. "But you're such a good little boy?" Richie continues, turning his upper half to face a puzzled Eddie. 

"He's usually so good E-"

"Stan what are you trying to do?" Eddie interrupts, leaning back against the side of Richie's car, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that reminded Stan entirely too much of his mother.

"You hate the smell of smoke." He emphasizes the word 'hate' by nodding his head forward, and sharply pronouncing the t. "You have literally walked home before instead of getting in Richie's car after he smoked it out." 

Stan rolls his eyes and walks around the front of the car, "Call it a change of heart, is it cool if I sit up front?" He asks, opening the passenger side door and slinging his backpack onto the floorboard. Stan looked up over the top of the car at Eddie and Richie, who were exchanging curious glances. 

"Suuure man...go for it," Richie drawls out, digging his keys out of his pants pocket. "Spaghetti, you comin’?" He asks Eddie, who had pushed himself off the car and was adjusting the strap of his messenger bag. "As much as I'd love to listen to the new Biggie album /again/ while you make us guess which celebrity you’re impersonating, I’ll pass." Eddie shakes his head and begins to head back up to the library doors. 

"I think we both know you're walking away forgetting something." Richie teases, taking a step away from his car with his arms open and waiting. Stan watches Eddie's cheeks turn a light shade of pink and his face twist into an expression of fake irritation. "Ew." Eddie replies, but he turns back and walks to Richie. 

Richie gently places his hands on the smaller teens cheeks and leans down, though Stan drops into the passenger seat and slams the heavy door before their lips meet. 

Stan does his usual ritual of getting into Richie's car, he scoots the seat all the way back as to accommodate to his lanky legs and leans back a bit so he wasn't sitting straight up. He looks out the open driver’s side door, past the legs of Eddie and Richie, at the front door of the Library. Stan prayed to whatever would listen that Bill wouldn't walk through those doors on the hunt for him anytime soon, because Stan knew damn well after that outburst that Bill would blow through the parking lot at top speed the second he spotted Stan. 

He’s pulled away from his thoughts when he hears Richie let out a sharp yelp. Stan leans across the median, propping himself up on his elbow and looks up at the couple in attempts to see what they were doing. He watches Eddie turn on his heel and dart across the parking lot back to the library doors, cackling the entire way there. 

"EDS YOU BITCH!" Richie roars across the lot, taking a couple steps forward but stopping. "FUCK YOU!" he calls at his partner’s retreating back, though his voice sounded much more amused than irritated. 

"What the hell'd he do to you Richie?" Stan chuckles, leaning back out of Richie's seat before his friend drops down. "The little bastard fuckin bit me." Richie scoffs, holding his hand right up in Stan’s face. Stan blinks and leans back a bit, so he could see Richie's hand. When his vision came into focus he could make out a relatively clear bite mark on the skin between Richie’s thumb and forefinger and Stan couldn't help but laugh.

“Well that's what you get, you're always putting your hands in his face, he was bound to do it eventually." Richie rolls his eyes and slams his door closed. “Little fuckin’ goblin.” He mumbles, wiping his hand off on his torn jeans. 

Stan reached over his own shoulder and pulled down his seatbelt, clicking it in and flopping back into his seat. “What crawled up your ass n died?” Richie asks as he buckles himself in, “You look pissed.” He fumbles with his keys for a moment before he finds the right one. Richie jams the key into the ignition and uses what looks like his entire upper body to bring the shit-box to life. The car chokes for a moment, but with another crank at the keys it roars to life. “Well maybe I am pissed.” Stan mumbles, looking down at his clammy hands as he flexes them. One or two joints pop when he closes his hands into fists. 

“Talk about it princess.” Richie grunts, throwing an arm behind Stan’s seat so he can crane his head back to see if any cars were approaching. “But before yah do,” Richie’s voice turns to one with more of a southern twang “Be a lamb and take m’joint from behind my ear.” He drawls, putting the car into reverse and backing out of his spot. On a normal day, Stan would tell Richie to knock it off and talk ‘like an actual person’, but he found himself too mentally foggy to do more than what Richie asked. 

He reaches over and moves aside the thick mop of thick curly hair that draped down to his friend’s shoulders and pulls the joint from behind his ear. “Thank you kindly.” Richie coos, turning back around once he was fully pulled out of the parking spot and putting the car in drive. “Now if you’d also just light that for me shug, I don’t have t’ teach you how t’ light it now do I?” Richie teases, his country accent still going strong as he pulls out of the parking lot. Stan let out a quiet laugh and shook his head, “I think I’ve watched you and Mike smoke enough to sort of get it.” 

Richie was by no means a careful driver, and Stan usually found himself clutching the ‘oh shit’ handle like it was his life line (it was) with one hand, and using his other arm to brace himself on the median. This time though Stan allows himself to be slung around the passenger side, bumping his shoulder against the door when Richie takes a hard left out of the parking lot. Stan looked down at the floorboard of the car in search of Richie’s lighter. 

“Glove compartment.” Richie says simply, returning to his regular voice. 

Stan nods and digs through the glove compartment on his side until he feels cool metal against the pads of his fingers. He grabs it with the tips of his fingers and gently takes it out. He palms the lighter in one hand and the joint in the other. 

“Remember you gotta breathe it in when you light it, or did you wanna wait until were at my usual spot?” Richie asks, taking another sharp turn that causes Stan to lean over to Richie’s side of the car. When their shoulders brushed Stan felt the parts of him that had touched Richie go hot. Maybe he could talk to Richie about it? He might understand, or at the least make it enough of a joke that Stan would feel better. 

“Stan my man,” Richie takes a hand off the wheel and snaps his fingers near Stan’s face “What do you wanna do?” 

Stan scrunches his nose and pushes away Richie’s hand, “I’d rather you be able to do it, I’d probably just fuck it up.” He mumbles the last part, loud enough for Richie to hear him but quiet enough for it to not elicit a response. Stan reaches across the medium and places the joint and lighter in Richie’s lap. Neither teens worried about the joint being too out in the open, as the officers didn’t bother to travel this far out of Derry.

The two shared a silence the rest of the drive, the only noises filling up the empty space were the muffled sound of tires crunching over loose gravel and the chorus of what Stan recognizes as “Gimme the Loot”.


	2. I've Come Undone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stan opening up and finding he has a lot more in common with richie than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has brief mentions of hospitalization and describes self harm scars! please read at your own risk!

Stan is pulled from his daze when the car stops short, jerking Stan forward. Richie throws the car in park and slings both legs up onto the dashboard on either side of his steering wheel. Stan glares at the gangly man next to him, sprawled out like he was beach side instead of sitting in a beat-up car in the woods outside Derry, Maine. Richie reaches between his light wash jeans and feels around for the lighter and joint, wasting no time once he got his hands on them he lit it up and inhaled deeply. 

He holds he joint with his pointer finger and thumb out to Stan, smoke trickling up from its red head. “Remember you gotta hold your breath.” Richie says in a strained voice, trying hard not to exhale. Stan gingerly takes the joint from Richie and gives it a once over. He hadn’t ever held one before if he was being honest, the most he’d seen before now was when Mike and Richie would slip one another stuff between classes that would be quickly tucked away before anyone was the wiser. 

“Don’t be a baby,” Richie exhales “just breathe it in.” 

Stan stares at the joint for another long moment and sighs. “You go ahead and hit it a couple more times.” Stan says, handing it back over to his friend. Richie gives Stan a curious look as he takes back the joint. 

“Talk to me Stan, you’re bein’ fuckin’ weird.” Richie tries to make his voice sound firmer, but it lacks the weight that someone like Bill’s voice would carry. 

Stan can’t help but sigh again, he throws his hands in the air and leans back against the car seat. “I... I just got mad at Bill, he said some stupid shit.” Stan says shortly. He crosses his arms over his chest and stares out the filthy front window of the car. Beside him Richie nods understandingly as he takes another deep inhale, “Well what’d he say?” his voice was strained again. 

Stan felt his stomach twist. He’d have to tell him eventually wouldn’t he? Everyone would find out one way or another, and Stan would rather he himself aired out his own dirty laundry. Stan balls his fists up in the long sleeves of his red polo shirt and exhales slowly, trying desperately to remain calm. His attention shifts when he sees a movement in the low branches of the trees directly in front of them. He sees a small chickadee, preening itself carefully on a delicate branch. 

Stan keeps his eyes on the gentle bird as he speaks, “Well, I told him something about me and he got really weird.” Stan states simply. He watches the bird pluck out one, two feathers away from its small body. The creature drops them quickly as to resume its preening. Stan watches as the feathers float gracefully down, allowing the calm wind to take them away.

He hears Richie exhale slowly. “Well you’re just dancing around the subject now.” Richie states flatly as he ashes the joint in an open can of soda. “What’s the thing he got weird about Stan?” he asks in a more concerned tone. 

Stan didn’t take his eyes off the Chickadee when he states coldly “That I hurt myself.” 

The words left Stan’s mouth before he could sweeten them up more, make it sound not as bad as it was. His statement hung heavy in the air for one, two minutes. Two painful minutes of silence were shared before Richie spoke up again.

“Like on purpose?” he asks, his voice didn’t seem to carry disappointment or anger like Bill’s had earlier. Instead he asked like it was just any other question. 

Stan nods, “Yea.” 

Richie looks over at Stan, but Stan refuses to look back at Richie. He couldn’t face those large, unblinking eyes that Stan could only guess were filled with an emotion akin to pity.

Stan didn’t want pity, not from Richie or his parents or anyone for that matter. 

“How long you been doin’ it?” Richie asks. The question catches Stan off guard; he hadn’t expected anyone to ever ask it. When his parents had found out two years ago the last thing they did was ask Stan a question. 

“Well, if I’m 17 right now then…” Stan purses his lips thoughtfully “around 14? Maybe 15? Roughly.” Stan looks away from the Chickadee and lets his gaze fall to his lap. He’s moved his arms from tightly crossed across his chest and now has his hands pinned between his knobby knees. Stan hears his friend shift beside him, though he’s still too anxious to look in his direction. He watches a thin hand move into his line of vision and between his knees, it gently pulls at his wrist.  
“Gimme.” Richie says, his tone still held no detectable signs of irritation or disappointment. 

Stan’s entire body seizes up, he’s hyper aware of how the fabric of his shirt rubs against his skin where Richie has a gentle hold on his wrist. His heart is hammering away in his chest and he feels as though his lungs are about to collapse in on themselves. Richie gives his arm another gentle tug and Stan surprises himself when he allows it to be pulled from between his knees. He remains tense as Richie pulls his arm over to the drives side. His blood feels like liquid mercury in his veins when Richie turns his arm over and pushes up his sleeve. 

Richie stares down at his friends textured arm. It bore scars of all shapes and sizes, some were pale and raised, fully healed. While the ones clustered on his wrist seemed relatively new as if they’d come within the week. Richie uses his free hand to snub out the joint on the side of the same can he’d ashed it in earlier and sets it in the empty passenger side cupholder. His now free hand slowly moves up Stan’s forearm, taking in the foreign feeling of scar tissue beneath the pads of his fingers and palm of his hand. He rests the hand on the crook of Stan’s arm, keeping the sleeve pushed up. 

“I didn’t go on vacation for those two weeks last summer.” Stan admits quietly. 

Richie looks up at his friend, who’s still staring down into his own lap. He can feel Stan’s thundering pulse beneath where his thumb rests in the crook of Stan’s arm.  
“Someone at temple saw my arms when I was washing my hands in the bathroom and told mom.” Stan takes a shaky breath “We got in a big fight and she took me out of town to see someone.” Richie nods to indicate he’s listening as he traces slow circles on the palm of Stan’s hand. 

“It didn’t help, if I’m being honest. I felt more like I was being interrogated for treason.” Stan pulls his arm away from Richie’s hands and pushes his sleeve back down before returning it between his knees. Where Richie’s fingers once were on Stan’s arm itched, the kind of itch that felt more than skin deep. 

“After the fight Mom decided to take me to the town over.” Stan admits, “didn’t want it to get around that the Rabbi’s son is a cutter.” He shrugs his shoulders and looks out the passenger window. Stan was surprised at himself for how casual he was being about something so personal and that he’d kept so private for years. In a weird way it felt like a relief, like he was moving stones from his chest one by one. 

The two shared another silence that carried an emotion neither could quite put their finger on. 

Comfortable?

Strained?

Awkward?

Richie was the one to break it though when he reaches out and gently slides a hand between Stan’s shoulder blades and runs it up to rest low on the back of Stan’s neck. “Stanley,” Richie says quietly “you don’t have to, but if you can could you look at me?” He feels Stan’s neck muscles tense beneath his palm with his request. Stan complies, though slowly. 

He turns his body so that his back was resting against the car door and his legs had shifted slightly onto the seat with him. Richie allows his hand to slide along Stan’s neck as he turned, and when he was fully facing Richie his hand settled on the crook of Stan’s neck. 

Stan usually hated others touching him, he’d go out of his way to take empty halls between class periods even if it meant he couldn’t see his friends. Skin on skin contact burned for Stan, as if wherever had touched him was placed on a hot stove. He swore that if he looked long enough, that he could see the touch etched just below his skin. Though Richie’s hand on his neck didn’t burn, for the first time in a long time a touch felt pleasant. 

Maybe this was just he was just vulnerable right now. 

Stan the Man never bore his soul to people, he stood stonily among his friends as the unofficial second-in-command behind Big Bill. Stan keeps all his secrets in a nice little bundle tucked behind his heart where they could fester and putrefy within the heat of his chest. Yet here he was letting Richie Tozier, a kid graced with a nickname like Trashmouth that he wore on his chest like a purple heart, see that festering rot. 

“I’m a lot more on your side then you think.” Richie says as his thumb runs up and down the soft skin of Stan’s neck. “Like, I get it because I do it too.” This sentence comes out quicker than the last and it carries the shame Stan had been looking for earlier. 

Stan finally looks Richie in the eye. 

“Seriously?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you have any questions/comments/concerns please feel free to message me at picture-me-gone.tumblr.com or leave a comment below!
> 
> hope yall have an amazing day/night <3

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys! i just wanna start with thank you SO much for taking time to read this fic, it means the world to me c: 
> 
> i honestly have been reading fics here for so long and writing them for even longer, though until now i've been waay too shy to show them to anyone outside my group of friends. but honestly i'm way too proud of this fic to keep it buried any longer!! so here we are!!
> 
> (side note, this fic takes place in 1994. Richie, Eddie, Bev, Ben, Mike, and Bill are 18 while Stan is 17.) 
> 
> if you have any questions/comments/concerns please feel free to message me at picture-me-gone.tumblr.com or leave a comment below! 
> 
> hope yall have an amazing day/night <3


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